Don't Step Out!

In childhood summer days

My grandpa used to warn:

‘My child don’t step out
In the garden in night!

There is a snake chasing rats.’

In school days family doctor used to

Warn mama: Don’t step out

In the street or go to school! for a week.

The plague is spreading like a deranged man’s rage.’

Our Kashmiri gardener

Warns his young daughter:

‘Don’t venture out in the street.

A red-eyed wild soldier,

Drunk and intense,

Is stomping our street

His bayonet erect!’

Now my grandson returns

Early from his school and whispers soft:

‘School is closed. Let us not venture out

In mosque or  mall

Bus or cinema hall.

There is a bomb scare.

No one know what type and size.’

A hill station hotel manager suddenly regrets:

‘For two days no sight seeing, sir.

All roads are blocked for security reasons!

The President and her family and friends

Have arrived for holidays!’

M. Hasan

Ajmer, September 19, 2011

SILENCE ZONE

Silence Zone :I

This is a ‘Silence Zone!

Horns and loudspeakers strictly prohibited’,

Warns a loud expensive sign board of

Police Station on the Indian Parliament Street.

 

Silence Zone :II

Rajasthan police stations greet

With their confidence-oozing

Blood red department motto

Declaring at their iron gates:

‘Trust among common men!

Fear among criminals!’

Silence Zone: III

A small brass plaque,

Daily deftly massaged,

Each word glistens

As  tiger’s canine teeth,

On station house officer’s dark table,

And underneath

Steely horse-shoe heeled black boots

Tapping hard on stone floor,

Assuring visitors,

Some smiling, most sobbing:

‘Buck Stops Here!’

M. Hasan

Jaipur, December 1, 2010

Silk Scarf

A stray wind draft

Creeps underneath a creased

Green silk scarf

Ruffles, shocks and nimbly lifts it

Stealing it out from high mansion window.

With few playful mischief, abandons it

Entangling irretrievably on a thorny bush.

Seeing an old banyan tree

Stretching out its hairy arms

On highway road

She stops her speeding car

Under its shade.

Her wandering eyes sees the entangled scarf

Fluttering its shredded parts,

A frocked girl crying to escape

Being snatched away from widow mother

Consigned to a burning pyre.  

Her car doors tightly closed.

Engine and air conditioner on.

First she whispered, then softly sobbed.

Then, her cell phone hissed.

Shocked, she cried in anguish

as if suddenly stabbed

Being alone on a lonely road.

Was the banyan tree an octopus in deep sea?

A yellow leaf, yesterday green,

Falls on her wind screen

Getting stuck with wipers. They stop.

Mist settles in her eyes.

She vacantly looks beyond opaque screen.

Nothing moves. Nothing stirs.

Neither wipers, nor the leaf.

Being angry, the car has already stopped.

Her skirt’s hemline stuck in door.

Snatching it out, a wolf outside howls.

M. Hasan

Jaipur, August 9, 2009

Uhuru

 

Are you there, Mecere, still  fine and firm

In the blackened system, cruel and infirm?

Where is our fragrance of friends

who fought with green twigs

For voice of wisdom, Ugali and grass

Voice  Mathare Valley, River Road and

space  between Nakuru and Nariobi.

I remember the blast

Shaking the white Norfolk Hotel at midnight

Shattering campus window panes and

Graveyard peace of urban elites

Leisure life in Hilton Inn, Jacaranda and Serena

Black monolith Kenyatta Center did also shiver.

Kisumu Nairobi Mombasa Train

An old lady with wonderful grace

Daily moved like an ebony cylinder

At times like a glistening cobra snake

In wood and safari plain

Carrying curious eyes  of white men.

Fascinated I, get fastened in the belly of gorgeous snake

Kisum-Mombasa wonderful train

With glazed scales as window panes.

Free Masai, proud panthers, and golden lions

Spangled zebras, ridgley giraffe

Carrying birds in thorny grass

I run through them in Mombasa train.

A gentle tap on my hand

Ebony grace on a chiseled face

White teeth adorning spotless sun

I turn around and struck with surprise

See the train bearer with gracious smile.

He smiles. A morning garden sprouts

in me throwing away mean Nairobi in me.

Warm, grace, generous and decent,

He bows with his sumptuous plates;

Pine apples, papaya, juice passion fruits

Water melons, corn flakes and aromatic coffee best.

He spreads the table and spreads all with smile and grace.

“What else would you like to have?”

He says like an angel concerned.

I thank him with my watery mouth

Pleased and sure he gently retires

Behind white curtains of slithering train.

Outside the train some wolves cry

Droughts have damned safari lands.

No rain this year. It was not last.

Cobras hides have gone to cities

On dead elephants’ ivory stacks

Plies as tourist luggage from safari land to city Nairobi.

White men oversee in the Rift Valley

Many rifts in human landscapes:

Sunken faces, receding eyes

Half moon dark stomach

hanging on straw frames.

Trees without leaves

and leaves without trees

Far away last dying vulture screech

Dusty dry bones hurt its parched beak.

Plundered Highlands with stony face

Heave over bodies of Kikuyu dead,

And far away Akamba, Luo and Masai in desert lands

Are trapped, tried and whipped all the night.

Mecere Mugo, tell me dear, how long?

And are you, at least, alright?

I await, you say ashante, not hakuna,

Even though you could be crying

under the rubbles of unfinished Uhuru.

M. Hasan

Sports Club,  Ahmedabad

May 5, 2000

----------------

Note: Ashante = Thanks; Hakuna = No; Uhuru = Freedom in Kiswahili

Symphony of Golden Void

SYMPHONY OF GOLDEN POORIES

M. Hasan

Iselin, NJ, April 4, 2009

Slowly kneading American dough

from her aged face drips

some salty spontaneous drops

oozing from stream of subconscious thoughts.

The slow motions unlock

from rheumatic finger knots

texture of deeper thoughts

tight, tense and waffle glass brittle

only she knows what they are of.

Sea deep frying pan

and the red-eyed fire beneath

the messy and greasy oily world

become heated enough

at certain point

but the lid must remain strong,

as an old habit,

she timorously thought.

Step by step she rolls the dough

as perfect moon in poorie form

the unending circles of her own,

one by one she dips them all

in scalding oil to let them puff

first silvery white and then gold brown,

thin crisp and heaved full

they remain intact holding their own

floating on a hellish stove.

Well puffed attracting smiles

but only she knows

the void inside veneer thin

is her own.

-

Home

What I need is a little home

Where friends and family can be at home.

A peaceful place for sound sleep

A dining space for friends indeed

For coffee rounds and small treats

On a green patch where birds can chirp

A quiet room for mother’s retreat

That is a home for us all, I dream.

Nothing more and nothing big.

For others around thus I dream

What I need is a little treat

A bath tub of two by six feet

Where words and vision can easily mix

Where I can spread my legs with leisure

For relaxing, ruminating and wondering aloud

While watching intently bubbles around

I crave to run away far on wild clouds.

Stratosphere and lithosphere

May hover around and quietly merge

With my solo journey without fear.

For a tethered man’s small dream

My little desire my wife concedes

In a house of three beds and dining hall

This little request is not very tall.

Friends insist build a beautiful house

Impressive, enjoyable to house dreams.

They measure me and size of the land

Unfolding their worldly thoughts.

How many rooms and baths

Size of dining hall and front yard?

What materials from where to find?

What materials are you using?

No, no Kota stone!

If not granite, then

Makrana Marble is a must.

No stone frames nor iron ones

As trendy values they bust or rust!

Italian marble if you can

For your master bedroom, dear friend,

They suggest with great zest

For a man to have a nice rest!

Big slabs not small crumbs

Bhilwara bricks not cheap ones

Cement Shri or JK is fine

Big units. Almost divine.

No section window, never at all.

We must have seasoned wood.

No acacia, nor sesame or sal.

Just teak from MP or Assam

Not Nigerian or Nepal.

Teak for doors and window large

Letting sun, moon and wind barge in.

They spread their vision

In my drawing room and dining hall.

Their global flights, my local frights.

Not a Gandhi house for EWS.

You have earned enough

To build a decent and durable house.

There isn’t going to be another house

In this life, they gravely say.

It is going to be one for ever

Wise friends remind me at last.

Alas!

I think for ever, what I know

And feel deep.

The house for me is never so big

With wood, glass, cement or marble.

No bath no kitchen

No dining and drawing room.

No reading room, nor sofa set

No fancy light nor air conditioners.

It is going to be minimal, raw and simple

Prime primitive and pure plan.

A two feet by five by six feet

Covered by earthen pots not by bricks

Thatched roof with straws and mud.

At most they may leave behind

A one feet long irregular stone

Scribed in charcoal with abandonment:

Here lies the 'Unknown'

Date of birth, not known

Place of birth, desert west

Died this morning

Wishing to be alone.

God, bless him! Amen.

M Hasan

Sri Ganganagar, April 9, 2000 

Garden Walk

Garden Walk

April 11, 2007

Defense Colony, Bangalore

Tall trees spread their overarching arms

Entwined, almost love locked

Over walk ways blessed with shades

For morning people, in group or alone

Young and old, beautiful and plain

Shapely and spread, tall and thin

Short and stout

Brisk and slow

Ears plugged with earphones

Firmly plugging out

World ahead and behind,

Programmed, orbit like shadows.

Birds jump from twig to twig

At will sipping flower nectar.

Joyously they chirp

and sing their music own

Their ears not plugged

Like that of the crowd below.

Isn’t this sad, God?

In green ambience

Invigorated with fresh air

Cool shades and lofty landscape green

People can be so mean

Paying dancing and singing birds no heed

Eyes not savoring serene trees

Their sun-bathed golden leaves

Stately curved trunks as if

With still Bharatnatyam pose

With slow motioned

Fan-like fingered branches

Clad with beautiful palm leaves

All choreographed with each gale

Willing to kiss whosoever them touch

Fragrant Harsingar flowers descend one by one

Not disturbing birds’ music notes.

Don’t Yee see and wish,

they all seem say, good morning

To every leave and every flower

To each bird and each fellow walker?

A graceful smile from an elderly face

A silver smile from a gorgeous girl

An outreaching well-meaning hello

From a young man

Can make a marvelous band

You play and we play

For a wonderful day

Beginning from a garden bay

Wouldn’t you all for this pray?

UHURU BEREAVED

I may be black

Not my deeds and thoughts

Pink is my flesh and ruby my blood

Teeth my pearls forest my robes

When beasts were my friends

I never sobbed

Lakes our aprons

Pelicans were wings

Elephants our force

Rivers our dance

We sang with birds

Roared with lions

We ran with golden deer’s

Danced with peacocks

Diamonds in my mother’s womb

You all have robbed.

The Nile was my journey

Mt. Kilimanjaro my crown head

I didn’t leave my home 

You stole me by force

From the lap of my mom

And hands of my father

Without any thoughts of remorse

In ropes and scaffolds.

My home wasn’t dark

White and Brown

You all made it dark

Indeed, very dark.

M Hasan

Jaipur January 6, 2008